


Cast On

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Make one away</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cast On

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/)**black_hound** made me do it.
> 
> Originally posted 2-16-09

The house is in disrepair, a grey pall settled over it. Hornblower stands outside and Bush watches him, aware that he will not go in. Hornblower is sworn to duty, but it is clear that Maria understands that the true duty is to the child. That is why Lady Barbara cares for him, why Maria stays here, letting the milk leech from her breasts. Bush has heard the stories bandied about Lady Barbara’s kitchen and the halls, all the servants speaking in hushed tones as if Maria has passed on, already dead to all of them.

“The child needs me.”

Bush nods as Hornblower turns back to the carriage. Everything has been explained and arranged, and he knows there is money for Maria, enough to last her the rest of her life. He stands there and watches, wondering if any of them had realized, as they tossed through her life and took the parts that seemed to best fit the new life they’d chosen for a proper sailor like Hornblower, that money mattered little to Maria and in leaving her that, they’d left her nothing at all.

**

The door opens at his knock and he makes his way inside the dark room. There is an oil lamp sputtering in a distant corner, but it offers nothing but a waxy sheen and a burning smell. The curtains are drawn and the small room is oppressively hot. He glances around for Maria, the sweet sour smell of milk clinging in the air telling him she is near. He closes the door and leans against it, his stump loud on the wooden floor. “Mrs. Hornblower?”

“Not that.” There’s almost humor in her voice and he finally sees her, sitting in front of a cold fireplace, staring at piles of dark soot. “I am no longer that.” She is dressed in dark clothes, black as mourning. The front of her gown is crusted and dried in places, others still damp with the seeping fluid. “I had not thought you a cruel man, Mr. Bush.”

“Cruel?” His voice is low and soft as he makes his way toward her. She does not look at him, her gaze still locked on the dead hearth. “I do not mean to be cruel.”

“No. I imagine you do not. You are a practical man, are you not? You send money home to your sisters and live a Spartan life. You follow orders and carry others out. That is why you’ve come, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“No? You come here and call me Mrs. Hornblower as if I…as if he still wishes me to be that. Better that I had died, Mr. Bush.”

“No. He would not wish for that.”

“He needn’t now though. His new…” She stops, inhaling sharply, the air stuttering through her lungs. “His new wife more able than most to fit the cost of our divorce. He offered me money to pretend to be some landed gentry, a small cottage in the country, pastoral and a lie. To ease his conscience, not my life.” She reaches up, smoothing her hands over the front of her dress, expressing milk in rivulets of white against the black fabric. “Are you to convince me?”

“No.” Bush walks over slowly, focusing on the sound of his steps, soft and then loud, until he reaches her, sitting across from her. “I came to see how you fared. Captain Hornblower knows nothing of my being here.”

Maria raises her eyes to his and smiles. “He knows. He has told me, in those rare times he spoke to me more than the simple words to get us through the days, days that must have been agony for him – trapped on land, trapped with me – he told me of you, of the man you are. He issued this order, Mr. Bush, even if they were never spoken. Take the money that is my right. Fade away.”

“You give him more credit than he deserves.” The words come with difficulty, but he knows it is the truth, and the one thing he can offer her. “Had you died, you might still be on his mind, but in this, you are not.”

Darkness flashes in her eyes and she looks again at the hearth. “So why are you here?”

“I am not sure.” He looks at the stone as well. “I simply knew I must come.”

“Ah. Another man of honor. May God above save me from such.” She stands and turns toward the kitchen. “I have nothing to offer you, Mr. Bush, unless you would like tea?”

“No.” He stands as well, moving behind her. What he knows of women belongs only in the worlds of sisters or whores, and nothing of a true Lady like Barbara or a woman like Maria. He touches her shoulders with careful hands, the rough calluses rasping against the worn fabric. “Turn around.”

She does, slowly, and he’s careful to never remove his hands, letting his fingers trail over the back of her dress as she spins. His fingers trace across her shoulders to the high collar, undoing the small dark buttons far easier than the rough knots he can fasten and unfasten with ease. She watches his face, never looking away and he opens her dress, spreading the fabric to expose her heavy breasts, nipples dark and swollen. “Don’t.”

“Shh.” He bends his head, nuzzling one of them, his tongue flickering over the red tip. Maria bites her lip to suppress the soft sound and she shakes her head. He watches her react then continues down onto his knee, his stump out to the side and braced against the chair she abandoned to balance himself. Maria’s body still bears the extra weight of childbirth, her hips wide and softly curved. His fingers travel over her skin reverently as they strip away her dress and undergarments.

“M-Mister Bush.”

He shakes his head and leans in, his tongue tracing the vee of flesh shrouded by the downy hair between her thighs. She quivers above him and he uses his thumbs to part the flesh, inhaling the ripe scent of her before tracing her with his tongue. He pulls back, his breath heavy in his chest and looks up at her. “I cannot offer you anything that he did. I am nothing and have less.”

“In the end, Mr. Bush, he gave me nothing I wanted. Babies I lost and love returned unaccepted. Money to live a life alone.” She looks down at him, her eyes bright with tears. “You’re on your knees for me where no man belongs.”

“A man should worship a woman he loves.”

“You do not love me. I am another man’s discard, unworthy of love.”

“He was unworthy.” The words stick in his throat, though he knows they are close to true. Hornblower cannot accept love like Maria offers, cannot recognize it when freely given. “Maria…”

She shakes her head and pulls away from his touch. He knows he should be repulsed by her – her body still swollen from another man’s baby, her breasts seeking to nourish what she no longer has – but instead, when she turns and heads toward her bedroom, he rises to follow, to claim what he knows now is rightfully his.

**

It is a quiet ceremony in Smallbridge. His sisters and the pastor in attendance, Brown sent as representative for Hornblower and Lady Barbara. Maria looks at no one but him, looks for no one at all. Bush watches for dangers, looking for the change of weather or snags of sea that send ships floundering, but sees none when he looks at her, his wife.

She joins him in Sheerness and knows the ways to soothe the pain from his phantom limbs, from phantom ships he can no longer sail. He watches Hornblower slip away from her like the tide. When he visits, as the tide always returns, Maria does not look at him, leaving Bush to speak to him alone and, when he comes again, they meet only at the Sheerness docks. Meager meals are not offered, and instead are taken at the pub. Maria waits for Bush to return and leads him to bed, never once looking away.

When he is called again to serve in the frozen north, she sees him off. There are no rough knitted mittens at his departure, but instead a bow for Hornblower and a kiss for Bush, and the difference between the two is more than enough to keep him warm.  



End file.
